


it's in the job description

by iron_spider_suit



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Autistic Peter Parker, Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Peter Parker, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark is Good With Kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22097500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider_suit/pseuds/iron_spider_suit
Summary: Peter gets sick just in time for movie night with the team. Tony does his best.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 534
Collections: Irondad Fic Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

It started with a tickle in his throat that wouldn’t budge, and an unusual soreness after patrol. Over the week, despite the growing list of complaints—the congestion and the heaviness in his chest, and the inexplicable fatigue—Peter went to bed every night convinced that he had reached the lowest point and he would feel better in the morning. 

He woke up on Friday with his chest tight, his throat so sore swallowing was an ordeal, and the familiar heat of a fever making his eyes burn. In a panic, rather than attempt breakfast, Peter went straight to the drugstore down the street. He knew over the counter cold medicine wasn’t going to do much for him, but he still hoped it might at least take the edge off—after all, all he needed was to get through his classes and to be presentable for movie night with the team that night.

Maybe because he couldn’t resist biting into and chewing the lozenges, they offered very little relief for his aching throat, and didn't help at all to curb the developing cough. They did, however, at least help distract him from the blinding lights and noise of his commute.  Peter’s heightened senses required careful management at the best of times, and when he was ill he lost almost all control over them, none of his usual tricks to alleviate the assault on his senses being any help. 

He stumbled out of the station into the street with a throbbing headache. And despite taking some of the cold medicine before class, he still spent first and second period wincing even at the squeak of markers on the board.

At lunch time, he dumped more cold medicine in a glass of water in lieu of eating anything, as he had no appetite whatsoever. Swirling the medicine around and around, he lost himself in the deepening orange color and the rhythmic clink of the spoon until a touch to his wrist broke him out of his reverie. 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to have that much at once…” Ned said dubiously.

Peter considered that for a second before shaking his head. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”He pinched his nose in preparation against the strong, unpleasant taste. “And it’s the only way it’ll work for me.”

“Will it actually?” MJ countered with a raised eyebrow, watching him with interest as he gagged and shuddered while draining the glass. 

“I’m hoping,” Peter replied, face screwed up in distaste. 

“It’s Friday. Why don’t you just go home and get some rest?”

Ned saved Peter from having to explain. “He has his _internship_ ,” he said in a stage whisper, with a meaningful wag of his eyebrows.

MJ was not impressed. “I’m sure he can reschedule.” She squinted at Peter appraisingly. “How much work are you going to get done like this anyway, _Victorian boy dying from consumption_?”

Ned chuckled around his mouthful of pudding.

Peter pouted. “Hurtful.” MJ’s lips quirked in response, but she rolled her eyes when he continued: “And I can’t. Reschedule. I’m not dying.” 

“I’m pretty sure we can get you a doctor’s note even so.” 

Peter only shook his head. Too tired to keep up with MJ’s bantering, and too embarrassed to explain: he felt like a child, but the thought of missing out on his weekend at the compound and movie night with the Avengers made him tear up. It didn’t help that he hadn’t seen Tony in three weeks—one weekend taken up by a Decathlon competition, and the other by the wedding of a friend of May’s from work. And while Peter loved weddings as a concept, hours of small talk with strangers and loud music were exhausting, and with his enhanced senses, it turned out, even more so. To make matters worse, a malfunction of the sound system had caused a screech which had made everyone in the room wince… and Peter throw up.  His face still burned with mortification at the memory. He needed this weekend with Tony. So of course it was just his luck to fall sick now.

“I can’t,” Peter repeated, voice wobbling. 

MJ sighed, and nudged her _Nestea_ toward him. “Drink that. You need some sugar.”

The cold medicine must have done something, because by the time classes ended he felt marginally better. He must still have looked sick enough, though, because the moment Happy caught sight of him he did a double take and scowled. “Are you contagious?” he demanded.

Settling in the back seat, hugging his backpack to his chest, Peter shrunk in on himself. “Probably,” he admitted. “Sorry.” He covered his mouth with one hand, sleeves pulled down over his fingertips like that could stop the germs from spreading. 

“Are you sure you’re up for the trip?” Happy asked skeptically, turning his head toshoot him a look, the car idling. 

Peter nodded emphatically, gratified when his head didn’t immediately explode with pain. “I’ll be fine in a bit,” he said quickly. He cleared his throat in an attempt to hide a cough. “I’m good.”

“Right.”

During the drive, however, the heaviness in his body only seemed to grow. He couldn’t stop shivering either, which brought back the muscle aches the cold medicine had quieted down.

“There’s a blanket in the back,” Happy said after half an hour. 

Peter, curled up in his seat, opened his eyes to peer at Happy in bemusement. “Yeah...? I know.” 

Their eyes met in the rear view mirror. “Well? What are you waiting for then?” Happy burst out after a beat of silence. “Grab it!” 

“Oh. Sorry, I—” Peter jumped at the loud voice, and hurried to sit up. He still had trouble figuring out when Happy was actually annoyed, and when he was just being Happy. As he reached for the handle that lowered the back seat, allowing access to the trunk, he hesitated: “I thought it was supposed to be just for emergencies? You said—”

“Your teeth are chattering—it’s distracting. A driving hazard,” Happy interrupted him in a brisk tone. “Take the damn thing.”

Still half expecting a reprimand, Peter pulled the thick wool blanket out. Settling back in his seat, he wrapped it close around himself.

The current chill deep in his bones felt different to the usual cold that had plagued him ever since the bite, and considering how multiple sweaters and blankets barely helped with that, Peter wasn’t optimistic one blanket would be much use now either.  But it turned out it _did_ help. After fifteen minutes his teeth stopped chattering, at least. And though still miserable, after a while he was comfortable and exhausted enough that he ended up dozing off.

Unceremonious as ever, Happy woke him up poking him in the shoulder. He kept his voice pitched low, however, as he informed him: “Kid, we’re here.” 

“I fell asleep,” Peter mumbled dumbly as he tried to blink away the haloes of light from the garage outlining Happy’s figure. 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Happy agreed dryly. “First time I’ve heard you snoring like that.” 

Peter flushed—his nose felt plugged up again. “Sorry! I didn’t realise—” he croaked, smothering a cough.

Happy’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “Just messing with you, kid. Come on, I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“That’s new,” Peter blurted out as he stumbled out of the car. Happy usually gave a short wave from the car, driving off before the elevator doors closed. 

Happy gave him a look, his face expressionless. “Don’t get used to it.”

Unsure if he was still joking around, Peter ducked his head and focused on attempting to fold the blanket back into a neat square, but his arms felt heavy, so that it was like he was struggling with a duvet. 

“Just leave it.” Happy snatched the blanket from his hands and tossed it into the back of the car. “Come on. I want to see Tony’s reaction.”

“What?” Peter asked through another cough.

Happy ignored him, nudging him forward with a hand on his back. “Don’t worry about it.” He gave Peter a couple of pats after a minute, on the elevator. Though quite gentle, they felt like hard claps, and hurt more than they helped against the coughing.

Peter hid a wince. He felt wretched, his backpack straps digging into his shoulders painfully, and the weight he normally wouldn’t even feel seeming to drag him down. Any improvement the cold medicine had worked was long gone. 

Following FRIDAY’s directions, they found Tony in the kitchen, cutting up fruit for one of his smoothies. He also had the vanilla powder out, however—a clear sign he was planning on making Peter his usual milkshake too, which made warmth flood Peter’s chest for a moment against the chill in his bones. 

“If I have to call in sick, you know who to blame,” Happy grumbled in greeting. Resting a heavy hand on his shoulder, he gave Peter a light push toward Tony. 

“You once tried to come to work with the mumps, what are you—?” Tony turned to face them, holding a plate with diced melon. His eyes widened as they fell on Peter, and he remained frozen in place. “Kid. You look rough.” 

Happy made an amused sound and gave Peter another pat on the back, making him wince, both at the touch and the joke he wasn’t getting. Tony didn’t laugh, at least, just continued staring, which was almost worse. Peter sniffled, twisting his fingers in front of him.

The time he had been stabbed Tony had been all over him—and normally he was a lot warmer—but now he just stood there, a good fifteen feet between them. Peter could admit to himself he had been hoping for a hug, especially after three weeks. 

Holding onto his elbows, hugging himself close, he lowered his head. Maybe he shouldn’t have come after all. 

“It’s just a cold,” he said in a small voice. He thought it might be the flu, but a cold sounded less serious, like something that wouldn’t be that much of a bother.

Tony grimaced. “Sound rough too.”

Happy looked between one and the other, and gave a snort of laughter. “I’ll be going then. Good luck!” he added—Peter wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or Tony, who was shaking his head at Happy, mouth in a thin line. With a last pat to Peter’s back and a ‘Get well soon, kid’ Happy made his exit.

“I shouldn’t have come,” Peter whispered after a minute in which neither of them moved or said anything. Flu or cold, it was clear Tony didn’t want him here.

“No—” For a split second Peter’s stomach dropped. Despite his fears, he hadn’t expected to hear it outright. “Of course you should have—it’s your weekend here.” Finally setting the plate down on the counter, Tony walked over to him. He reached out to grip the back of Peter’s neck, giving him a gentle, tentative squeeze. “Why don’t you go up to your room, leave your things… change into something more comfortable…?”

Peter breathed out in relief, though he still felt doubtful. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice shaking. In his state, the comforting gesture was enough to make him emotional.

Tony nodded with more confidence, rubbing his nape soothingly with his thumb. “Of course. Have you eaten, Underoos?” 

“Um. I had something at lunch…” he lied. Tony always gave him a hard time about him not eating enough for his metabolism. 

“What was that, at noon? You’re due a snack.” Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Even though the idea of eating was not appealing, Tony taking charge felt routine, familiar. And he knew he needed to have something to eat anyway. Outside of the fuzziness from being sick, he felt faint, a clear sign that he was crashing. 

“PB&J OK?” Tony went on, steering him toward the elevator. “And a nap.”

Sleep did sound like a good idea, even if lying in his room alone did not. Since he was little, whenever he was sick May would sit with him, running her fingers through his hair until he fell asleep. Peter would wake up to find her engrossed in a book or on her tablet, but as soon as she felt him stir, she would feel his forehead for a fever, and offer different things he might need, or murmur reassurances—which was all he wanted, more often than not. 

“A nap… in my room?” Peter asked dubiously. 

“Where else?” Tony replied with a chuckle.

Biting his lip, Peter nodded. He wanted to ask where Tony was going to be, because that was where he wanted to be, but he stopped himself, not wanting to come across as a total child. Though he felt like one when he was sick, desperate for the comfort of a parental figure. As he went up in the elevator, he reminded himself sternly he had no right to think of Tony as one.

Up in his room, he changed into pajama pants and a long sleeved shirt, and got into bed, the cold sheets bringing about a new fit of shivering. Cocooned under the duvet, he allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. He didn’t know how long it was before he heard Tony calling from the hall. 

“Knock, knock.” Tony pushed the door open with his shoulder, hands occupied with a tall glass and a plate with a sandwich. “Headache?” he asked as Peter surfaced, blinking blearily even though the lights were low. 

“Yeah. A bit.” He got headaches at the drop of a hat with his enhanced senses, though added to that was the heaviness in the middle of his forehead, which he recognised as congested sinuses. 

Tony sat down on the edge of the bed, at the level of his hip. “Voila!” he pronounced. “A snack by yours truly.”

Peter eyed the sandwich warily, but forced himself to reach for the plate. To his surprise, he noticed Tony had spread the peanut butter on one slice of bread and the jam on the other, and cut the crusts—just like Peter liked it. He looked up, round eyed. It was something May did, though she poked fun, but Peter never expected Tony to do it. 

“Don’t tell me I got something wrong,” Tony said with a raised eyebrow. 

“No, no, Mr Stark, it’s perfect!” Hoarse, his voice broke and faded out. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s not a big deal, Pete.” Tony gave his knee a squeeze over the duvet. “And I’m only kidding, I _know_ I got it right,” he added with a grin, drawing a weak laugh from Peter. 

He raised the sandwich to his mouth, even more determined to eat it. “Thank you,” he replied, voice hushed with earnestness. 

Tony shushed him, ruffling his hair. Peter leaned eagerly into the touch, but it didn’t last more than a couple of seconds. “Eat.” 

Holding back a sigh, Peter took a small bite. The pain still made him grimace when he swallowed. The second and third bite only hurt worse.

“Throat hurts?” Tony asked softly. 

“Mhm.” 

Tony pressed the cold glass into his hands. “Have some of this, see if it helps.”

Peter drank the milkshake in large gulps after a first tentative sip, the cold soothing to his throat. 

“Careful, don’t give yourself brain freeze now.”

His fingers chilled after holding it for even that short time, he handed the glass back without argument—just in time, as a coughing fit hit him. When it passed, he looked up to find Tony staring at him, all traces of a smile gone from his face. 

“You’ve got one hell of a cold, don’t you, kiddo?”

Peter sniffled and wiped at his eyes roughly—he could blame the tears on the coughing. “Sorry,” he choked out. 

“ _Peter._ Come on, kid.” Tony shushed him, a bit frantically, finding his knee again. “You don’t have to apologise for being sick.” 

Fighting to keep more tears that threatened to spill under control, Peter took in a shuddering breath. “But I’m bothering you.” Sometimes he felt like nothing but a burden—first to his aunt and uncle, and now Tony too. 

“No you’re not. What gave you that idea?”

Peter studied his face, twisting the sheet in one hand, unsure. “Mr Stark,” he whined in spite of himself. “Are you being sarcastic?” He frequently had trouble telling at the best of times, and at the moment he felt slow and more at a loss than usual, with no energy to try and work it out. 

“I’m not, Spider-baby, honestly,” Tony answered immediately. He patiently let Peter examine his expression: searching for a revealing twist of the lips or sardonic raise of the eyebrows, but there was nothing. He worked Peter’s fingers loose of the sheet carefully, and swiped a thumb over his knuckles. “I’ve just never taken care of a spiderling before, so I’m kind of… scared of screwing up, to be honest, and making you feel worse.” 

In a moment of boldness, though he made sure to avoid his eyes, Peter turned his hand and curled his fingers around Tony’s for a minute, sticking for a split second before letting go with a spasmodic squeeze. He glanced at him then, relieved at the absence of a frown, before dropping his eyes again, and raised the sandwich for another bite. 

“I already feel better, Mr Stark,” he said, hoping to reassure him. He didn’t really—maybe a little less faint because of the snack, but his stomach was roiling unpleasantly now on top of everything else. 

A corner of Tony’s mouth twitched. “Sure, Underoos.” He paused. “And that _was_ a bit of sarcasm.”

Peter managed a faint smile. “Thanks,” he replied, only half joking. 

Tony ran a hand through Peter’s curls. smoothing them back. “Rest will help,” he said decisively. “Why don’t you finish that and try to nap for a bit?”

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Peter admitted, forcing himself to finish the sandwich. Eating was also complicated because his nose felt clogged up, even if it wasn’t runny, so he couldn’t breathe right. 

Once Peter was done with the milkshake, Tony collected the glass and plate and got to his feet. He rested a palm on his forehead for a few seconds, the line between his eyebrows growing more pronounced, before stepping back. “You’ll feel better after a nap,” he repeated.

Peter desperately wanted him to stay, but he kept silent, even when Tony paused at the door. “I’ll come by later, OK?”

“OK,” he answered in an almost inaudible whisper, once Tony had closed the door behind him. 

The thought of calling May crossed his mind, but he discarded it. He had texted her earlier to assure her he was feeling better, and he knew she had plans after work later tonight, and for the weekend, since Peter wouldn’t be at home. He lay back against the pillows with a sigh, blinking back tears, which made the sense of breathlessness worse.

Peter didn’t remember falling asleep, but it felt like no time had passed before he was waking up with a start, saliva flooding his mouth and his throat burning. He barely made it to the bathroom, where he threw up until nothing but bile came out anymore. 

Groaning, Peter lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bathtub, shoulders hunched and arms tight around his middle.

“Peter, would you like me to alert boss?” FRIDAY asked from outside the bathroom.

“No, no.” Heaving himself to his feet, Peter splashed some water on his face, and released his breath in a long sigh, only to have it bring about a coughing fit. “I’m fine,” he told the AI in a gasp, once he had it under control. “Better now.”

He repeated himself, mumbling, as he made his way back into bed, curling around a pillow before passing out. “I’m fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

Right from the start, the mere thought of Peter getting hurt had brought on a sense of mind numbing panic. But Peter sick—even with something as minor as the flu—gave rise to its own kind of alarm in Tony. 

While superhero injuries were a familiar terrain and to a certain extent almost impersonal—after all, soldiers, as Steve would call them, cared for each other on the battlefield—this was different. _Parents_ cared for their kids when they were sick. Tony was supposed to take care of Peter. Out in the world, he did that as best he could with the suit he had designed for him. In here, he had no idea what to do, and he was terrified of messing up. 

He felt a bit nauseated himself when FRIDAY informed him Peter had been sick, and though he was asleep once more, his fever was up.

On her suggestion that something milder to eat might have been best—‘ _Now_ you tell me?’—Tony prepareda can of chicken and noodle soup, anxiously stirring it for the exact amount of time specified, and squeezing half a lemon into it on Pepper’s advice.

When Tony came into the room, Peter peeked out from under the duvet before sitting up with slow, weary movements. “Hey, Mr Stark,” he said hoarsely.

“Hey, kiddo. FRIDAY says you were sick.”

Peter made a face and knuckled at one eye in a sluggish movement. “I told her not to bother you.”

“She didn’t—” Tony directed his next words at the room. “—Though she should have!” Approaching the bed, he inspected Peter: he was pale, except for a feverish flush on his cheeks, but he looked alert enough, even if tired. “I only found out now. But I should probably warn you, AIs are not the best at keeping secrets.”

“Mm. OK, then.” Peter offered him a wan smile as he settled back against the pillows.

“That easy?” he asked with a small chuckle, taking his seat on the edge of the bed.

Peter blinked at him in confusion, after coughing into the crook of his elbow. “She didn’t do it on purpose.”

Tony released his breath in a small, fond sigh. The kid was impossible. “Guess not. Here.” He was careful transferring the bowl of soup into Peter’s hands. “This should go down better, I’m told. Chicken soup. It’s canned, but it should be OK.”

“Smells nice,” Peter said with a faint, but sincere smile. Tony wasn’t sure how much he could actually smell congested as he was, but the kid was too sweet for his own good. “Thanks, Mr Stark. You didn’t have to…”

“Gotta feed you, kid. It’s kind of in the job description—” he replied without thinking. The implications of his words hit him the moment they came out of his mouth. Thankfully, Peter didn’t ask which job he was talking about. “Careful, it’s hot.” It was instinct to reach for his wrist when Peter winced as he brought the spoon up to his mouth. “The last thing you need is a burnt tongue.”

Peter hummed, and Tony waited until he had blown on the next spoonful for a few seconds before letting go.

“It’s good. It tastes like the one May always makes when I’m sick, too.”

“Is canned soup her secret strength in the kitchen?” Tony teased, squinting one eye comically. “Otherwise I don’t know how to take it.” He was gratified when Peter giggled in response, even if the laughter was interspersed with coughing, forcing him to put down the spoon.

“Alright, alright. I know I’m hilarious, but settle down, Underoos.” Tony scooted closer in order to steady the bowl, as well as to rub Peter’s back soothingly. He kept his tone light and gentle, and raised an eyebrow playfully once Peter had a firm grip on the bowl again. “I’m going to tell on you to May.”

Peter looked at him, seemingly all wide eyed innocence, but he couldn’t quite hold back his grin. “I said it was _good._ ”

Tony let out a laugh, shaking his head. “So you did.” He nudged the spoon toward him again. “Now eat. You need it after throwing up.”

Peter worked on the soup for a few minutes, before Tony decided to ask. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been sick since the bite then?”

“Hm?”

“You used the present tense. May makes you soup?” Tony clarified as he passed him a napkin.

“Thanks.” Peter held both hands to the bowl for a minute, tracing a small chip on the lip of the bowl with one finger absently. “Yeah. I even had the flu twice in one season last year. I think maybe the shot doesn’t work on me anymore?”

“To be fair, the vaccine isn’t 100% effective,” Tony countered, but he suspected Peter was right. 

They could run some tests and confirm it. But Tony was hesitant—the challenge of balancing the potential benefits of studying Peter’s physiology and genetic make up in more detail, against protecting him from feeling like a specimen for scientific experimentation, was constant.

A conversation for another time, he decided on finally, and absently patted Peter’s thigh over the covers. “We’ll just take it easy this weekend, yeah? I’ll tell the others movie night is off tonight—”

“No, Mr Stark!” Peter exclaimed, voice cracking, and nearly spilling the bit of soup left.

“Kid, you’re sick.” Tony righted the bowl, and guided the hand with the spoon back toward it. “Finish that.” Touching the back of his hand to Peter’s forehead, he added: “Pretty sure you still have a fever.”

“B-but what about the others?” Peter asked dejectedly. “I won’t come downstairs i-if you don’t want me to, but it’s not fair to the them, Mr Stark.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. “Kid—”

Peter’s lip wobbled. “We only meet once a month, and everyone made the time to come. You can’t cancel now just on my account.” His voice broke—clearly with the threat of tears this time, rather than due to his sore throat.

“Alright, hey.” Tony instinctively pulled him into a one armed hug, after setting the bowl on the bedside table. “OK, Underoos, movie night’s not cancelled.” Don’t cry, he wanted to beg him.

“Really?” Peter peered at him with glistening eyes.

“Yes, really.” Tony sighed, and rubbed his upper arm in a comforting gesture. “And you can come down if you’re feeling well enough. You’re not grounded, kiddo.”

Peter nodded eagerly. “I’ll feel better.”

Tony didn’t argue. “Maybe if you finish your soup, you will.”

The bowl back in Peter’s hands, Tony repositioned himself so that they could watch a video together on his tablet. “Look what I found—Vintage.” It was an old video of Spider-man, back when he still webbed around in a homemade suit, stopping a streetlight from falling over and crushing pedestrians, after a car hit it. Tony hoped it might put a definitive end to any threat of tears.

Peter watched himself with a clear mixture of interest and embarrassment. “That was the first version of the web fluid,” he said in an apologetic tone, as the streetlight tottered and grazed a building, breaking a window, before he managed to secure it.

“Kid, you did good,” Tony assured him.

Chin to his chest, Peter shook his head, but he was smiling as he finished the soup. Even if Tony wanted to do more—tell Peter how impressive it was that he had been out doing that a mere two months after the spider bite; tell him he was proud of him—in the end he said nothing, moving on to a lightsaber fight from the recommended videos, which made Peter look up at him with a heartwarming grin.

Despite his aversion to germs, Tony couldn’t help bring Peter in closer, wrapping an arm around him, after setting the bowl on the bedside table. 

During the third cat video compilation, Peter started slumping against his side, until his head finally lolled onto Tony’s shoulder as he succumbed to sleep.  It was with inexplicable reluctance that he carefully let Peter fall back to lay against the pillows instead. He pulled up the covers and smoothed his hair back from his warm forehead, quick and uncertain, before slipping out of the room. 

Around an hour later FRIDAY alerted him that Peter's fever had gone up again.

This time Tony brought him a mug of chamomile tea with honey—another of Pepper’s suggestions—as well as a couple of Paracetamol, though he doubted they would do much.

Entering the room he found the covers kicked down to the floor and Peter curled into a ball, shivering.

Though half asleep and obviously groggy from the fever, Tony succeeded in getting him to drink some tea and swallow down the pills, bracing him as he sat up so that he wouldn’t spill the tea all over himself.

He wasn’t sure what to do once Peter lowered himself back onto the bed to burrow under the duvet.

After carding his fingers through sweat damp curls for a moment, he hemmed and hawed for a couple of minutes before leaving again—with instructions for FRIDAY to alert him if Peter's fever didn’t go down, or if he was sick again.

“I thought he was like Steve?” Clint noted curiously when Tony told the team Peter wouldn’t be joining them for movie night after all because of the flu. “Steve can’t get sick, right?”

Steve, who was passing around pizza slices in cardboard plates, looked up. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Definitely not,” Sam confirmed. “If that bug my niece brought in from preschool didn’t get him, nothing will.”

“Peter’s case is completely different, though,” Bruce piped up, giving voice to what was going through Tony’s mind. “Steve’s enhancements are the result of a serum meant to turn him into a super soldier, resistance to illness was naturally one of the goals.” He accepted his plate from Steve with a thoughtful, abstracted look. “Peter was bitten by a radioactive spider. As a matter of fact, it’s really quite unpredictable how his body will react to anything anymore, or how it might change with the years.”

A solemn silence fell over the room at the unexpected weight of his words. Against the sudden tightening in his chest that made it hard to breathe, Tony reminded himself he had once discovered a new element in order to save his own life—there was nothing he would not do for Peter.

“He just has the flu,” Natasha pronounced flatly after a minute.

Tony was strangely grateful for her dry impassivity. “Yeah. He’ll be right as rain in a couple of days,” he agreed.

Nonetheless, he was unable to really relax. He kept an eye on his watch in case he should get an alert from FRIDAY, and let the movie play in the background as he researched home remedies for the flu on his tablet. Following instructions, he prepared some lemon water and stuck it in the fridge, and rummaged in the cupboards until he found a box of oatmeal, and a pack of applesauce cups he thought Pepper used for baking. He put those in the fridge to take up to Peter later as well.

When he returned to his seat, he moved on to browsing studies on the response to different remedies. He was absorbed in one of these when all of a sudden Natasha tensed in the armchair, at the same time as Clint turned his head toward the hall. 

Apparently FRIDAY did not think to alert Tony if Peter simply got out of bed, because there he was: shivering in his rumpled sleeping clothes, hair a tangled mess.

“Kiddo—”

“C-can I sit with you?” Peter croaked, clutching at his elbows, before holding his fist to his mouth to smother a cough.

“Sure, get over here,” Tony replied at once. He noticed Steve exchanging a look with Sam, while Natasha stared at him unabashedly, eyebrows raised, but he ignored them, as well as Clint’s undisguised amusement, keeping his focus on Peter.

Although the floor was littered with empty plates and cans, Peter picked his way across with surprising ease, then crawled onto the couch to fit himself in close next to Tony.

“Feeling better?” Bruce asked—out of politeness, because it was obvious the kid was half out of it.

Peter gave a non committal hum in reply. He felt hot against Tony’s side, so his fever must not have budged.

“Is that _Casino Royale_?” he whispered hoarsely after a minute, perking up a little. “I like James Bond,” he said, as he tucked himself in closer to Tony. “And the new ones are a little less sexist.”

Natasha snorted with laughter. “A little.”

Feeling him shiver, Tony wrapped an arm around him. “Are you cold, Pete?”

Peter snuggled closer. “Always cold,” he murmured distractedly. And, right, that was something they were definitely going to be talking about at some point. At that moment, however, Tony didn’t need to think about it for long, even though it meant displacing Peter for a second. In a quick move, he tugged off his hoodie and manhandled Peter into it.

“Mr Stark!” Peter protested, but he was sick, and caught unawares, and Tony was zipping him right up to his chin before he could get another word out.

“There we go.” He shot Sam a warning look before he could say anything, and Peter, oblivious, only dipped his head shyly before lying back down against him, sleeves down to his fingertips, and hands tucked close to his chest.

“Thanks, Mr Stark.”

“I wish to learn the game of poker,” Thor declared out of nowhere, breaking the silence and making them all laugh.

Peter’s giggling couldn’t quite disguise the fact that he was still shivering, however. Tony cast an eye around for the throw blanket, happening to catch Bruce’s attention.

Bruce pulled the fleece throw from the back of the couch behind him and tossed it over to them, a small knowing smile on his face.

Tony tucked Peter in conscientiously, ignoring the eyes he could feel on him. At least Peter was out of it enough he wasn’t as self conscious as he normally would be—even after a couple of months of hanging out with the team, he still got a bit nervous at times.

“Peter, do you want anything to eat?” Clint, who was sitting closest, asked after a couple of minutes, waving his plate in the air.

“You didn’t throw up again, right?” Tony asked Peter in an undertone, though he hoped FRIDAY would have alerted him of that, as instructed. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sam pulling a disgusted face, causing Natasha to snicker and Steve to bite back a laugh.

Peter shook his head, no. “But I’m not hungry, thank you,” he said to Clint.

Tony had read it was best not to force him to eat, and though he would eventually need to because of his metabolism, he let it go for now. With Peter snug against him, he felt it straight away when his body started growing lax and heavy with sleep only a few minutes later.

“Tony, you should really send him to bed,” Steve spoke up, though he kept his voice hushed.

But not enough. Peter jolted and clung to him, shaking his head listlessly. “No, no, I’m awake,” he whined.

Steve frowned in disapproval, but Tony didn’t have the heart to tell Peter to leave. “I know, kid, it’s fine,” he soothed.

It took a while for Peter to relax again, one hand gripping Tony’s tee shirt under the blanket. Nonetheless, when the torture scene came around and Peter didn’t wince along with everyone else in the room, it confirmed he had fallen asleep again.

Tony smoothed Peter’s curls from his forehead, which still felt too hot. He didn’t miss the look Steve shot him, but studiously ignored it.

Sam stood up, then. “I’m gonna get some more popcorn, anyone want anything?”

“Another!” Thor requested, holding up his empty beer bottle, though thankfully not shattering it on the floor as he used to do. “And more of this delicious pizza.”

“Make that two.”

“Is there any garlic bread left?”

Clint leaped over the back of the couch to follow Sam to the kitchen. “So drinks and food all around?”

Tony flattened a hand with care over Peter’s uncovered ear, like it might help against the loud clatter of clinking bottles, and the rattle of ice cubes, and the small explosion of kernels popping. But it came as no surprise when Peter jerked awake as the microwave beeped to signal it was done.

Looking disoriented, he pushed himself upright, coughing.

“Hey, Pete. You with me, kiddo?”

“Mhm.” Peter patted him with another quiet cough, as though to prove the evidence of his words. “I’m here.”

Tony held back a chuckle. “Yes, you are. How are you feeling?”

Peter hummed, glancing up at him, but it was clear he was momentarily enthralled by the design on Tony’s tee shirt, a sequinned cat that changed colors when they were smoothed up or down. He startled Tony when his eyes went wide all of a sudden, and he gasped, horrified.

Looking down Tony located a wet patch on his shirt where Peter had drooled while he slept. Tony hadn’t even noticed.

Wiping at his mouth, Peter rubbed at the spot with the sleeve of the hoodie for a second. “Shit, sorry! Sorry, Mr Stark.”

“Pete, it’s alright.” Tony took hold of one wrist, giving him a grounding squeeze. “It’s just a bit of saliva, kid.”

“Don’t spiders have corrosive saliva?” Sam quipped. “Creepy things,” he added, as he returned bearing more pop corn.

“Not all of them,” Peter argued, sniffling. “And I’m not a spider.” As he sat up straighter, his fingers stuck to Tony and the blanket for a moment before he managed to detach himself.

“You were saying?” Sam laughed.

Coming in from the kitchen with the drinks, which he passed around, Clint addressed Peter: “Anything for you, champ?”

“What?” Peter turned to him, a cough getting caught in his throat.

“To drink, bud,” Clint clarified patiently. “Soda, tea, ginger ale… beer?”

“Funny,” Tony deadpanned.

“I can’t drink beer,” Peter said automatically in a quivering voice.

“There’s plenty of food. You should probably eat something?” Steve jumped in.

“Where’s the remote? I’ll just pause the movie, shall I?” Natasha stood up, marked irritation in her voice. They all knew she hated when people talked over movies.

Bruce waved the remote in the air after digging it out of the side of the armchair. “I have it.” He paused the film, which only led to the whole group’s attention diverting to Peter even more.

“Peter?” Clint prompted again.

Peter latched onto Tony again, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. He squinted, wincing at the glare of the television screen. “Sorry?”

Clint took a swig of his own drink. “What do you want?”

“Wh—To… to drink?” he stuttered. “Nothing, t-thank you. I’m good—”

Tony had learned to recognise by now when things were getting a little too much for Peter. He ran a comforting hand up and down his back, feeling the hitches in his breathing. “Alright, let’s—”

“Here, you really should drink something.” Sam tossed him a soda can, which Peter instinctively caught, fumbling with his left, as his right hand had stuck to Tony’s shirt again.

“Good catch!” Thor shouted, making Peter wince.

“What the hell?” Tony snapped at Sam—if Peter had been any slower it would have hit him in the face.

“Sorry, man,” Sam called to Peter, shrugging sheepishly.

“Does that happen often?” Natasha asked in bemusement, gesturing at Peter’s hands, as he unpeeled himself from Tony.

Peter hugged himself tightly. “No,” he mumbled.

“It’s fascinating,” Bruce remarked, considering him over his glasses. “Is the conscious effort to _not_ stick then? Until it’s become second nature with time? Have you experimented with the stickiness on every surface?”

Tony was familiar with that tone of scientific interest and excitement, and normally he could relate—as could Peter, if he weren’t sick and feeling harassed. But it wasn’t the moment for any of this. Which Bruce seemed to realise the next moment, going by his apologetic grimace. 

Peter shook his head, wiping at his eyes with the sleeves of the hoodie. “I d-don’t know, Dr Banner,” he stammered, obviously embarrassed and overwhelmed.

“Alright, everyone back off already.” Tony stood up from the couch, repositioning the throw over Peter’s shoulders while he was still sitting, before helping him to his feet. “Come on, Underoos, I think it’s time for bed. Clint, grab me some of the lemon water in the fridge and some applesauce, will you?” He tucked the blanket in closer around Peter, who reached up to hold it up with both hands.

Tony started steering him towards the hall. “Sound good?”

Peter nodded, stifling a cough.

“Coming right up.” Clint sprinted over to the fridge after saluting.

“What about the movie?” Peter asked, glancing back at the paused TV screen.

“We can watch it another time, don’t worry.” Tony kept them walking toward the elevator, stopping only to take the glass and the applesauce Clint handed over.

On the way up to the sleeping quarters, Peter shifted closer until he was pressed right up against Tony, resting his head against his shoulder.

“You tired, Spider-baby?” Tony asked softly.

“Mhm.”

“We’ll have you back in bed in no time.”

While Peter was having a quick shower, Tony aired the room, and changed the sweat damp sheets. As he was plumping out the pillows, he had a sudden moment of bewilderment—he had never expected to find himself preparing the bed for _his kid_ , sick with the flu. Yet there he was, against all odds.

The thought of leaving never crossed his mind, and there was no regret whatsoever. In fact the urgent drive to _make things better_ only intensified when Peter emerged from the bathroom: his hair was too wet, and the shower must have displaced the mucus in his chest, because his cough sounded wetter and heavier than it had all evening.

“Wait—” Tony hurried to the bathroom to fetch a towel. “Get over here. You don’t want to catch a cold on top of the flu, do you?”

He glimpsed Peter’s furrowed brow as he started towelling his hair gently.

“That doesn’t make sense, Mr Stark,” he said between stifled coughs.

Tony chuckled. “True, but you still shouldn’t go to bed with your hair wet right now.” He combed Peter’s hair back with his fingers, scratching lightly at his scalp in a comforting gesture as he failed to hold back a cough. “Let it out, Spider-baby. Just wait till I’m out of range of the spittle.”

The breath of laughter, even if it was accompanied by more coughing, was a relief. Tony didn’t actually get out of range. He guided Peter over to sit on the bed, and remained standing next to him, rubbing his back, while he coughed it out.

It took a few minutes to pass, Peter flopping on his back on the bed with a whine when it was done. But he seemed to be breathing a bit easier, even if he looked exhausted. 

Tony tossed the tissues Peter had coughed into in the bin with a comical grimace, drawing an exhausted smile from Peter. “Alright, get in—under the covers.” He waved an arm in invitation, and once he was settled, pulled the duvet up high.

Peter looked drained, all his usual animation gone, but with none of the serenity of his quiet moments either. 

Tony tucked him in a little closer with a sigh. “Aw, kid, I hate seeing you like this.”

The words had slipped out without any thought behind them, a simple expression of sympathy. But it didn’t throw him when Peter’s chin quivered and his breath hitched in what could not be mistaken as anything but a sob. “Sorry,” he whimpered, pulling the duvet right over his head.

Tony had expected a bit of a breakdown at some point, and was prepared for it, even if the tears still made his chest ache. “Spider-baby, you need to breathe,” he said in a soft, light voice, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. 

“I ruined movie night,” Peter choked out.

“No you didn’t.” Tony rolled down the covers enough to uncover his eyes and nose, both pink and wet. “The team don’t have a great bedside manner,” he continued with a slight chuckle as he fetched a tissue to wipe Peter’s face. “And… I haven’t done a very good job taking care of you, either.” His tone sobered, and he forced himself not to shy away from Peter’s wide eyes, which remained fixed on his face. “But I’ll do better next time. Promise.”

He meant it too. He was all too aware of the mistakes he had made, starting with how he greeted Peter, down to not keeping a better grip on things with the team, who had good intentions but were a hit and miss with Peter.

To his surprise and dismay, Peter’s eyes welled up in response.

“Peter—”

“You’re _so_ nice to me, Mr Stark.” Peter raised himself up to throw his arms around Tony, burying his face against his chest, clutching at his back weakly.

“Oh kid.” Tony cupped the back of his head, and cradled him close. Hit by a wave of emotion, he tightened his arms around the kid. “Hush, Spider-baby.” _His kid._ This was what he should have done from the start.

It was a few minutes before Peter pulled back, sniffling and coughing again. “Sorry—”

“Nope, we’re not going to do that,” Tony said firmly. “You’re wasting too much energy apologising, which is no good.”

A corner of Peter’s mouth lifted in the shadow of a smile. “There we go.” Tony had to resist the urge to pull him close again. “Alright, second order of business: your blood sugar is probably in the dumps, kiddo, which isn’t helping.” He reached for the glass on the bedside table and handed it over. “You need to drink. And eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Peter obediently took a few sips of the lemon water after blowing his nose.

“You feel OK, right? Haven’t felt like throwing up again?” he asked as he peeled open an applesauce cup.

“No. I think it might have been the cold medicine, actually, that made me sick…” Peter murmured into the glass.

Tony narrowed his eyes as he pressed the spoon into his hand. “Why would the cold medicine make you sick, Pete?” He was convinced it was the peanut butter and jelly—that Tony had stupidly forced on him—that hadn’t agreed with him.

“Mm.” Peter rubbed the pad of his thumb over the engraved bit on the handle of the spoon in a repetitive movement. “I might have had too much?” he said in a small voice, pitch going high.

“How much did you have?” Tony asked with forced calm against the spike of panic at his words, handing over the applesauce.

“I don’t know… about half the box?

“ _Peter_.” Tony hoped cold medicine couldn’t cause any serious damage to someone with Peter’s metabolism and healing capabilities, but if the day had proved anything it was that he couldn’t take anything about the kid’s health as a given.

Peter made a small pained sound at his raised voice, shoulders hunching.

“Sorry.” Tony lowered his voice. “But, Pete, what were you thinking—”

“I just wanted to feel better for tonight,” Peter interrupted, giving him a pleading, miserable look.

They both sighed at the same time, and Tony had to smile when Peter let out a breathless, automatic giggle. This wasn’t something he could just let go, however. “You can’t just do stuff like that. You gotta be careful, alright?” he insisted, and he could hear the hint of desperation in his voice, even if he wasn’t sure Peter would recognise it.

Nevertheless, Peter nodded. Tony patted him on the leg, and prepared to stand up. “After you eat that, you need to get some more sleep.”

“Not sleepy,” Peter said quickly through a mouthful of applesauce.

Tony made a skeptical sound in his throat. “Let’s see what happens when the lights go off, hm?” It was obvious Peter was tired, and he had no doubt he would fall asleep in minutes.

When he made an attempt to move again, his suspicions that his reticence was about something else were confirmed, as Peter shot a hand out to grab hold of Tony’s shirt. “Are you _leaving_?” he asked, voice cracking.

“No, Underoos, just going to take off my shoes and lie down, if that’s alright?”

Without letting go, Peter looked up at him, round eyed. “You’re _staying_?”

Tony had to resist bending down to press a kiss his forehead. “Yeah, Spider-baby, I’m staying,” he said with a soft smile.

“Oh. OK.” Still, Peter didn’t take his eyes off Tony as he toed off his shoes and stretched his back, fetching the remote from the TV stand before climbing onto the bed, slipping under the duvet even though he wasn’t cold. “Why don’t we pop in a movie or something, and see if you can fall asleep again.”

Peter gave a small nod in agreement—no argument this time.

Tony bit back a smile as he settled back against the headboard, and raised an arm in invitation, quirking an eyebrow. Peter hesitated for a second before quickly setting the empty applesauce cup on the bedside table and moving to fit himself to his side. Throwing an arm around Tony’s middle, he burrowed close, resting his head on his chest.

“Comfy?”

“Yeah.” Peter replied with a small sigh, before tensing, fingers tightening their grip on his shirt. “Are _you_ , Mr Stark?” His voice quavered with uncertainty.

Tony stroked a calming hand down his back. “Never better.”

After a quick search through the catalogue of films, series, and documentaries available—looking for something that wouldn’t keep Peter up, but would still be mildly entertaining—he decided on an episode of _The Blue Planet_. “OK?”

“I like his voice,” Peter murmured agreeably, as Sir David Attenborough started narrating over the image of a calm blue ocean. 

Peter apologised for coughing a few minutes later, but settled back on Tony afterward without needing any prompting, and he relaxed fully when Tony started stroking his hair. “Thanks, Tony,” he whispered a while later, when Tony thought he might have fallen asleep.

“Shh, you don’t have to thank me, Pete.”

It didn’t take long for Peter to fall asleep, but when the episode came to an end, Tony let it go on the start playing the next one, unwilling to leave. He suspected Peter might have stuck to him anyway, cuddled up to Tony—or that was the excuse he was giving himself anyway.

At around one in the morning, Tony having switched to a movie, Peter woke up in a coughing fit. Tony rubbed his back until it passed, coaxed him into drinking some more lemon water, then rearranged the pillows while Peter went for a quick pee, before tucking him back in.

It all felt impossibly domestic, and… natural. Tony had never felt so sure about anything in his life before.

“Don’t go,” Peter murmured sleepily, curled up against his chest again, cocooned in the duvet and blanket.

This time, Tony didn’t fight the desire to hold him closer and kiss the top of his head. “Not going anywhere,” he promised.

**Author's Note:**

> These were the prompts given for the Irondad Fic Exchange:
> 
> 1) Peter wearing Tony's hoodie.
> 
> 2) Movie night.
> 
> 3) Peter with a cold and being clingy.
> 
> I decided to combine all three, as best I could. 
> 
> For [Blue](https://marvels-blue-phoenix.tumblr.com/). It's not much, but hoping they and others might like it! Kudos and comments are always much appreciated, thank you.


End file.
